


The Same Old Place

by Annie_Eliza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bisexuality, Canon Universe, Coming Out, Depression, Destiel endgame, Destiel overtones, F/M, Falling In Love, Heartache, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Post-Season/Series 12, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Prostitution, Violence, pre-destiel, season 12
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-04 06:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie_Eliza/pseuds/Annie_Eliza
Summary: Just when Dean thought things couldn't get much worse, he comes across a case that affects an important person from his past.





	1. The Past: Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Despite being a Supernatural fan since it first aired when I was 14 years old, this is my first fic in this particular fandom. I'm trying to stay as canon compliant as I can (the finale of season 12) but might take small liberties in the pre-canon chapters.

**December 12th, 2001**

 

Dean lets out a sigh as he opens his eyes, squinting as the rising sun shines through the rear window of the Camry. Rubbing his face, he sits up in the backseat and looks around the surrounding parking lot. It is almost empty, except for a few trucks parked along the side of the lane leading to I-64. Dean checks his pocket to pull out his wallet and phone. He has a few hundred bucks left before he hits the limit under Dale Palmer and eighty in cash from a pool game he had won at a dive bar, before getting pulled by a fiery brunette into a bathroom stall. He has more than enough to last him until Morgantown. Besides, he doesn’t need to risk pissing off some burly middle-aged truckers if they aren’t into his last resort offerings. And that reaction is almost expected on the Kentucky-West Virginia border. 

 

No cell service is also expected. Dean holds back the sound of frustration caught in his throat as he stares down at the Nokia in his hand, NO SIGNAL in all caps right in the middle of his screen. There isn’t much use checking the other phones, although he knows he will give in and do it as soon after he takes a leak anyway. There had been no signal for the last hour of his drive before he called it quits at 2 am. It doesn’t matter. His dad would check in eventually, and Dean had left a voicemail to let him know where he was headed. That was over a day ago. He still can’t help but be a little worried. The man who would have yelled until he was blue in the face if Dean had even mentioned covering a hunt more than a state over from their current location now doesn’t seem to care that he is going from Arkansas to West Virginia, all while the older man himself is in Washington. Or is it Oregon? It’s one of the two. 

 

He puts his phone and wallet back into his pocket, then zips the leather jacket all the way up once he’s out of the car. The welcome center is obviously unattended, and has been for a while. The pamphlets are from the summer, there is a layer of dust on the display cases, the snack and coffee machines are out of order, and the bathroom smells like something died in it. It actually wouldn’t surprise Dean if something had. He is almost tempted to get his EMF reader out to check, but the looks he gets from one of the truckers in the bathroom end up freaking him out more than any ghost would. 

 

Dean is back on the interstate within minutes, blasting his tapes to fill the deafening silence that has made itself a starring role in his life in the last few months. The tapes help. Sometimes he would land on a song that would bring back memories, ones that would almost make him choke up. He’s good for two solid hours before that happens. When it does, it’s _Have You Ever Seen the Rain_ that’s playing through his speakers, and it’s his dad is belting it out as Dean joins in, with a six year old Sam rolling his eyes in the backseat. That’s what he’s remembering anyway. And it’s enough to get him to pull over to take a breath, before getting back on the road to find the closest diner. Because strangers? Even though they enter and exit his life like clockwork, they help a little too, even if it’s just a waitress giggling at his one-liners for a half hour. 

 

And of course the closest diner ends up being in Weston.

 

“Hi, I’m Holly. Can I get you something to drink besides water?” his waitress asks, tilting the pitcher over his glass.

 

“Some coffee. Black,” Dean tells her, giving her a once over in appreciation, “You work here long, Holly?”

 

“About a year,” she answers, biting back a smile, “You from here or are you just passing through?”

 

“Just passing through. But hey, if the girls are all as pretty as you, I may need to lay down my roots,” Dean smirks.

 

Holly lets out a shocked laugh, “You’re trouble, I can tell!”

 

Dean shrugs, “It’s my middle name.”

 

“So, _Trouble_ , you here for the asylum?” she asks.

 

“Why, they open it to the public yet?”

 

“Like anyone has enough money to buy the place and fix it up so it’s not a death trap. Doesn’t stop people from breaking in and risking their lives to find ghosts. No one’s had debris fall on them for a couple of years though.”

 

Holly isn’t telling Dean anything new. He, his dad, and Sam came in to inspect the deaths and the place ended up being one of the most intense paranormal hotspots they had ever hunted in. They didn’t bother getting rid of all the spirits, just the ones that posed a threat, which had been several. He ended up breaking his leg, got laid up for a few months, and felt like he was going to go just as batshit as the spirits that had caused the injury. 

 

But, knowing the history of the place, Dean can’t really blame them for being just as fucked up in the afterlife. 

 

“Nah,” Dean finally answers, “Ghosts aren’t really my thing. Don’t believe in them.”

 

“Yeah,” Holly agrees, changing her tune, “Me either. The history is interesting though. The high school used to have their dances in the gym there, even when the place was at maximum capacity with patients. My mom told me all about them. It was where she was crowned prom queen.”

 

“Weird town you live in,” Dean tells her, taking a sip of water. 

 

“Yeah, it is. I’ll get your coffee.”

 

Even though Dean knows he should make his breakfast quick and get to his case, he decides to order one of the larger breakfasts anyway, taking his time as he eats. He only has an hour left in his trip. He can take a little time for himself, despite a voice inside his head asking if he’s really sure about that. The voice sounds a little like his dad’s. 

 

When he does finally get back on the road, the silence still gets to him and it shouldn’t. He calls his dad. He calls Sam. 

 

Both go straight to voicemail. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“The body was found right here two nights ago. What was left of it anyway. Parents are devastated.”

 

Dean nods and runs a hand down his mouth, “He was 6?”

 

“Yeah. Mom and Dad said they tucked him in at 8:30. Mom goes to check on him when she gets up the next morning for work and he’s nowhere to be found. An old high school buddy of mine was fishing down here, found the boy’s arm.”

 

“And this has happened before?” Dean asks to confirm.

 

“Yeah, two weeks ago. Twelve year old girl. Pretty much the same deal but we’ve found even less of her so far. It looks like…”

 

Dean waits for the answer but it never comes. 

 

“It looks like what?” Dean prompts gently.

 

“Well...it looks like it was bitten off at the shoulder blade, as if something swallowed him from the other side of his body. I don’t know what could do something like that though. But it’s a bite. We’ve had deer wash up on the bank before, parts of them anyway. But they’re always causing so many wrecks, we figured it was a blessing in disguise of some sort. But this...”

 

Dean breathes out, then looks towards the river, “Are the parts still at the morgue?”

\----------------

He needs a drink. 

 

Sam and his Dad are better at this kind of stuff. Put him out on the field and he’s golden, but in front of a book? Okay, he was better at it than some might believe, but he didn’t _enjoy_ it. 

 

Especially when his results so far have been skeptical at best. 

 

He did luck out on the location of the attacks though, since it’s in a major college town. There are several research libraries, so he takes over a table, and pulls out Appalachian lore and mythology books, and takes his time reading all of them for hours, taking breaks only to get a half hour of computer time in here and there. He’s getting more from the books, but they mainly consist of ghosts, demons, and suspicious ritualistic murders, nothing that really sounds like-

 

“Research project?”

 

Dean looks up from his book, only to find a guy around his age, maybe a few years older, looking down at him in curiosity. 

 

“Sort of,” Dean answers, straightening in his seat, “You?”

 

The man shrugs, “Brushing up on medical terminology. Taking a year off from med school to save some money. I don’t want to go back completely useless next fall. 

 

Dean nods, “I’ll let you get to it then.”

 

But the man doesn’t leave, not at all. Instead, he takes a seat diagonal from Dean. Dean ignores him for a moment, before closing his book with a huff.

 

“Isn’t the medical library upstairs?”

 

“It is.”

 

“Then shouldn’t you be going back up?”

 

The man shrugs, “You...You caught my eye. Every time I went to get a coffee refill from the cafe, you’ve been right at this table.”

 

For some unknown, ridiculous reason, Dean feels a blush rise to his cheeks as he clears his throat and looks away.

 

“I mean, it was hard not to, considering you've been here for at least seven hours.”

 

Dean looks at his watch, “...And I didn't realize it was 8 o’clock.”

 

Dean stares down at the books and lets out a sigh. He’ll give it one more hour. The library is open until midnight now that finals are coming up, so he’s got time. If he can’t find anything in an hour, he’ll get a drink, play a couple of games of pool, maybe hook up with a girl, and go back to the motel to get a few hours of sleep. 

 

“Well, I have to get ready for work. If you need a drink once you’re done, I work at a bar called The Same Old Place until 3. It’s on the corner of High Street and Forest Avenue.”

 

Dean squints in confusion, “What kind of name is that?”

 

The man lets out a laugh, “Marvin, the owner? I don’t think he’s very imaginative when it comes to titles. The decor is cool though.”

 

Dean watches him stand up to full height and push his chair in. 

 

“I’m Silas, by the way,” he says to Dean, pushing his chair in.

 

“Dean,” Dean offers, not even thinking about the fake name on his badge.

 

Silas gives him a smile and a damn _wink_ before walking away.

 

“Hope to see you there, Dean,” Silas calls over his shoulder, before turning the corner, out of Dean’s sight. 

 

He may be wrong, but Dean feels like he was almost hit on. 

 

It could have been the fact that Silas had a smooth confidence that rivaled Dean’s on his best day. That is probably what caused Dean to get that vibe. 

 

Brushing the moment off, he goes back to the folklore section, hoping to find something that will give him an idea of what’s going on here. 

 

Another half hour in, he’s still made no progress. 

 

It’s forty-five minutes in when he sits up straight, his left finger on a four letter word in a reference book about Native American Legends as he writes it down his journal.

 

 _Ouga_. 

\-----------------------------------------------

After leaving the library, Dean drives down to the bridge, before climbing down the steep hill leading to the bank of the river. The caution and police tape are still abundant around the scene. He doesn’t really expect to see any potential monsters emerge, especially if it only eats every couple of weeks. But if he can find tracks, figure out the actual size to judge whether he needed to make some calls in order to bring in local backup, that would be enough for tonight.

 

According to the old text he found, the Ouga supposedly dwells in the Monongahela River, is roughly 500 pounds, and has a fifteen foot long tail to swipe unsuspecting deer into the river. It never mentioned any human victims, but if parts of deer have been washing up on shore, then there’s not much else it could really be, at least around this area. 

 

He doesn’t find any prints that would match what he’s looking for, but he does find an indented path leading into the water, as though it came from a huge, heavy tail.

 

He takes a few pictures of it and makes a mental note to find a butcher to buy meat from tomorrow. 

 

He could handle this. 

\---------------------------------------------------

“Finally put the books down?”

 

Dean turns his head at the sound of the voice and sees Silas behind the bar, mixing a drink for a woman a few seats away. 

 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, clearing his throat, “If I had to read one more sentence, I was going to lose it.”

 

Silas smiles a little and comes over to stand across from him, “Need a drink?”

 

Dean huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, you could say that.”

 

Silas nods, “Got some ID?”

 

Dean pauses, “Seriously?”

 

“Just doing my job, dude,” Silas shrugs, “You look young, probably on the border of the legal age. Can never be too careful.”

 

“I’m fuckin’ legal,” Dean grumbles, pulling out his wallet to pull out one of his more truthful IDs, handing it over to Silas. 

 

“22,” Silas smiles, holding back a laugh, “You’ve been legal for a whole year.”

 

“Two next month,” Dean shoots back, his fingers brushing Silas’s as he takes the ID from the man’s grasp.

 

“What would you like to drink, old man?” Silas smirks, putting his hand down. 

 

“Four shots of Jim Beam. A Corona,” Dean lists off.

 

Silas frowns a little at that, “Stressed about something? Finals?”

 

“I’m not in school,” Dean answers, thoughtless and monotone. 

 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean grunts, looking down at the surface of the bar. 

 

Silas takes the cap off of Dean’s beer and fills the shot glasses, “Want to talk about it?”

 

Dean opens his mouth and nothing comes out at first, so all he settles for is, “I don’t talk about stuff.” 

 

“About anything? Ever?” Silas questions.

 

“Well, I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?” Dean tells him.

 

“You are,” Silas confirms, “Not much, but it’s a start. You know, being a bartender and all is basically just a step down from being a licensed therapist. If I were going to school for psychiatry, I bet I could convince the board to apply my time here to my residency.”

 

“What are you aiming to do?”

 

“I want to work in the ER for a while,” Silas shrugs, “Open up my own Urgent Care down the road, one that can work with people who can’t always afford high medical bills.”

 

Dean nods in approval, “Good for you.”

 

“If I can save up to go back to school next year, then that’d be great,” Silas answers, “So, Dean, what do you want to be?”

 

Dean lets out a breath, running a hand through his short hair, “...I don’t know.”

 

And he doesn’t. He guesses he’ll be hunting. He always liked it, never thought he’d do anything else. But with Sammy gone and refusing to even turn his phone on and his Dad distancing himself for months, it’s not what it used to be. He does it for his mom. To catch whatever got her. But after? What then? 

 

Not that he can really explain all of that to Silas. 

 

“So what’s the deal with this place?” Dean asks, looking around, “It looks like it belongs to a lumberjack.”

 

Silas snorts, “And if you go into the next room, it looks like an acid trip. Marvin is a huge Twin Peaks fan. Wanted to emulate the show. When he explained the ‘mission’ of his bar, I told him he should have named it The Black Lodge or The Bar from Another Place. He’s still hitting himself for not coming up with that himself.”

 

“Twin Peaks...that show freaked me out,” Dean admits. 

 

“Did it?” Silas grins. 

 

“Audrey Horne was hot though,” Dean reminisces. 

 

“You into dark hair and blue eyes?” Silas smirks, raising his eyebrows. 

 

And yeah. Dean appreciates the combo. But, checking out the dark, thick hair on Silas’s scalp and the bright blue eyes gazing into his own, he can’t get the words out of his mouth. 

 

It's probably because he's choking a little on his drink though. 

 

“You don’t seem like the type of guy scared by much,” Silas continues, looking him up and down.

 

Dean recovers, “There are a few exceptions. I don’t think I will be afraid of anything like Sammy is afraid of clowns though.”

 

“And who can blame Sammy for that?” Silas answers, “Who’s Sammy? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

 

Dean gives Silas a double take at the last suggestion, “ _Brother_. Younger. He’s out in California. Stanford.”

 

“Must be smart. You two close?” Silas asks.

 

“Yeah...we were. Haven’t talked to him in a while though.”

 

And, somehow, Silas knows not to press the matter, whether it’s the change in Dean’s tone or if there’s a way that Silas can sense the heaviness in his gut. But, despite the fact Silas isn’t pressing the matter and Dean hasn’t had more than more than a few exchanges with him, he feels like he’s revealed too much of himself anyway. It's as if he’s just started to peel back his skin, as though there’s a ticking time bomb and it’s only a matter of time before he will start blabbering and expose himself completely. 

 

He had done that at the beginning of the summer when he took Sam to the bus station. Dad had taken off for the weekend and expected Sam gone for good by the time he got back. They had waited in the car for the bus to arrive and he and Sam had barely spoken until something inside him snapped and Dean had full-fledged bawled, like a damn mother saying goodbye to their kid for good. And Dean could admit to himself that some elements of their fucked up situation made that sort of true. But for him, it was more because he had to let go of the only friend he had. 

 

_”Are you going to be okay? Dean! Are you going to be alright?_

 

He had pulled himself together. Told Sam he’d be fine. Accepted the fact that Sam had to hug him, but he didn’t pull Sam close in return. Dean had known it would make it harder for him to let go. 

 

“Any single girls here?” Dean suddenly asks Silas, looking around. 

 

Silas stares at him for a moment, then gave him a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, “Check the other room. The college girls like to dance in there.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean nods, sliding Silas some cash, “Keep the change.” 

 

He meets a cute girl, Marnie. She fits his regular type. Dark hair, blue eyes, seems pretty smart, but maybe not smart enough to see she's out of his league in the ways it counts. 

 

But, once she sneaks out of his room after a couple of hot and heavy rounds, he figures she knows.


	2. Present: Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is struggling with his own grief. He doesn't know how to keep Dean from drowning in liquor, obsessive research, and devastation. All he knows is that his brother is sinking.

It’s hard to stay focused for significant chunks of time when there’s a constant, heavy ache in your chest. 

 

That’s what Sam has come to realize over the years. Pain and the need for revenge can take the wheel and drive him but, after a while, it makes him sloppy, reckless, and desperate. When the people in their lives, the people they love, are ripped away in an instant, it’s hard to stay logical. 

 

On second thought, they should be used to it by now. Loss isn’t exactly foreign territory for them.

 

But damn it, he wants to go off the deep end right now, just for one night, to mourn the mother he was just beginning to get to know yet is completely out of their reach. He wants to mourn for Eileen, for the texts they will no longer be able to send each other late into the night, for the flutterings of something akin to hope and maybe love that he had thought he’d never feel again. 

 

And he wants to grieve for _Cas_...

 

Fuck.

 

But he can’t. Not with the pain hitting Dean twice as hard. Because, despite what Dean would ever let anyone believe, his older brother was more...sensitive than him. He felt loss harder, got sucked into the grief he tried to bury to the point where it almost consumed him, leaving him no option other than to find a way to make the pain stop. Sex used to be one of Dean’s vices, but the older man rarely picked up anyone anymore, and definitely hadn’t since before Cas died. So it came down to liquor, constant research in what was starting to become a manic, hyperfocusing state, and sporadic instances of intense rage. Deals were off the table. With Crowley gone, no demon felt obligated to work with them, nor did they have any desire to. It seemed to be a sentiment the angels agreed with. And, considering the fact Dean doesn’t have a firm grip on his sanity at the moment, Sam is grateful for that. 

 

He wishes Dean would fucking talk to him, let him comfort him, something. Dean had gotten a little better over expressing it within the last few years. Dean didn’t let the trauma, regret, sadness, and worry build up for as long as he used to. Before all of this, Dean had actually gotten to the point where he could talk to Sam when the build up started to become too much. Dean was even able to cry in front of him once in awhile without shutting down any attempts of reassurance, comfort, or conversation Sam tried to offer right after.

 

Maybe it’s age. They are both getting older and maybe Dean is actually capable of realizing that weeping for the people and the good things in life you’ve lost isn’t anything to be ashamed of. That he could do that in front of Sam and not be judged or thought of as weak.

 

Well, that was what Sam had thought, at least until after he had to pry an inconsolable Dean from Cas’s body, only to watch him hole away in his room, ceasing to speak or eat for days.

 

But now that it’s been almost two months, all filled with dead ends and no leads? Sam almost thinks he’d rather have Dean like that than he is right now. 

 

“‘m fine,” Dean mumbles, taking a swig of whiskey straight from the half empty bottle as Sam kneeled on the floor to stitch the gash in his leg. A wraith, and a nasty one at that. One that must have escaped the efforts of extermination the British Men of Letters tried to bring forth. 

 

“Could have fooled me,” Sam mutters, tying off the last stitch, “Dean…”

 

Dean doesn’t seem to notice Sam’s lack of knowing what to say. If he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it. All he does is sway into a sitting position, drunker than Sam has seen him in years.

 

“Gonna ‘it the books,” is all Dean says, using Sam’s shoulder to gain enough leverage in order to stand up.

 

“You gonna even remember anything you read?” Sam has to ask. Dean ignores the question. 

 

Sam gets to his feet and watches Dean limp and stumble to the library, before slowly following behind. He watches as Dean grabs a book from the shelf and sits at the table, turning the pages and squinting, as if he can’t even properly read the words, let alone comprehend them. Sam sighs, then sits next to Dean, leaning to peek over Dean’s shoulder. 

 

 _The Book of Fallen Angels_.

 

“You’ve went through that one already,” he tells his brother softly.

 

“Might’ve missed something.”

 

Sam lets out a sigh, “Dean...This can’t go on. You can’t go on like this.”

 

Dean says nothing, turning the page as he focuses on the printed black words against the stark white, staring at them with such intensity, as though if he takes in every single detail, something would click.

 

“I know you’re hurting. Damn it, I know you’re struggling to keep going right now. I know you’re having nightmares and that you’re depressed. I know you’re worried about Mom and that you are having a hard time because of Cas-”

 

“Shut up,” Dean growls under his breath. But Sam knows he’s getting somewhere, going by the way a film of hot, angry, and grief-stricken tears starts to form over his older brother’s eyes and his lower lip starts to tremble involuntarily. And Sam knows he’s treading a thin line here. He can’t back off, not now. Dean needs to be pushed. Not too hard to scare him off for good, but enough to get him to break, and just enough so that Sam can see the cracks and figure out where he needs to start when it comes to putting his brother back together. 

 

“No,” Sam answers, “I’m not going to shut up. Cas...Cas is gone, Dean. And I _hate_ that he’s gone. It breaks my heart that he is and seeing you so affected by losing him breaks it even more. I’m not saying we stop looking and completely move on. We still need to find Jack and we still need to get Mom back. But Cas...If Cas is supposed to come back, then I don’t think we’re going to be the ones to make it happen.”

 

And, for a moment, Sam actually thinks he’s getting somewhere. Fists clenched on the table, Dean’s mouth starts to twist into a grimace as a stuttering breath comes from his nose and tears fall from each of his eyes, making their way down his face rapidly right before they hit the pages.

 

Sam’s breath hitches in his throat, “Dean…” 

 

Sam brings a hand up the back of his brother’s neck, exposed from Dean’s posture starting to curl in on itself, only blocked from doing so by the table in front of them. 

 

“We’re going to get through this, alright? I just...I just think you need to take a break. You’re getting reckless. I thought you were taking hunts nearby to help people, to keep yourself occupied, to take your mind off things...”

 

_But I’m starting to think you might be taking them to let yourself get hurt on purpose._

 

Sam doesn’t say it, even though it’s far from the first time the thought has crossed his mind. But he does want to say more, explain to him that he needs to process and not bottle things up. He wants to tell his brother that he’s here for him and wants to help. However, he doesn’t even think Dean completely comprehends what Sam has already said, because all that escapes is a long, high pitched whine, one that Sam can only assume is leading to something huge and devastating. The sound almost makes him break too, but he knows he can’t, not when Dean needs to so badly.

 

Sam turns in his seat and moves his hand from his older brother’s neck. Sam lets his left arm wrap around his shoulders, slowly pulling him into his chest, then wraps his other arm around him as well, cupping Dean’s stubbled, wet cheek in the process, catching the next tear that drips from Dean’s eyes on his thumb.

 

Dean’s body is trembling violently with suppressed sobs, but only short, painful gasps escape his mouth as he starts to dig his short fingernails into Sam’s wrist. And fuck, Sam tries to soothe him, rubs his back and even tells Dean that he’s safe. That he doesn’t have to be strong right now. 

 

But Sam knows that Dean isn’t wired that way, that it’s hard for him to be emotional around his younger brother, despite the progress they had made in the last several years. Because, when it came to vulnerabilities, trauma, or insecurities, Dean tended to open up more often around close friends, rather than him.

 

Or friend. Singular. Cas. The best damn friend Dean ever had, probably the first real friend he ever had as well. 

 

And now he was gone. 

 

Sam had actually been thrilled when Dean found Charlie. He seemed to confide in her as well. Their friendship was lighter. She got Dean to loosen up, got him to embrace his interests, got him to not care so much about how people saw him. 

 

Sam really wishes she could be here to help him with Dean right now. 

 

But she’s gone too. 

 

Sam leans his forehead against Dean’s upper back and lets out a shaky breath as tears form in his own eyes. Why did everyone they love have to die? They were fucking poison. 

 

He doesn’t have much time to sit there with his brother and mourn. The way Sam sees it, it would be easy, at least in comparison to the rest of their lives, to finally sit there together and cry over what happened, over the people they lost. 

 

Dean isn’t known for making things easy. So Sam should’ve known better. 

 

“Get off me.”

 

It’s Sam’s fault that he doesn’t. It’s Sam’s fault that he thought he could be persistent by holding onto Dean, as if that alone would help him work through all of this shit. 

 

“I said, get the fuck off me!” 

 

Sam has to catch himself on the table in order to keep from crashing to the ground. Frustration with a hint of anger starts to flow through him as he stands up and gets a look at Dean. 

 

He had been expecting Dean to be livid, maybe aggressive. But Dean’s wet, bloodshot eyes dart around the room wildly and his breathing is erratic, almost looking like a caged animal. 

 

“Dean, it’s alright,” Sam tells him, holding his hands out slowly, an attempt at a peaceful gesture, “It’s-”

 

“Nothing is alright, Sam!” Dean yells, “Nothing!”

 

Dean picks up a chair to throw it against the wall. All Sam can do is watch it splinter into pieces. 

 

“Stay away from me,” Dean warns him, reaching over to pick up the book from the table, “Stay away from me tonight.”

 

“Dean-”

 

“You _pulled_ me away,” he hisses, turning around to walk away, stumbling on the first step, “I could have saved him and you _pulled me away_.”

 

The words are like a slap, stinging with resentment. There’s something else in the words, something underlying that scares Sam, an emotion that’s potent and important, a missing piece to the puzzle that Sam’s not sure he’s ready to try to place in the right spot. 

 

Images of Jess dance in his mind. He pushes them down quickly. She died a long time ago. He needs to focus on the present. 

 

Sighing sadly, Sam glances down at the broken chair and decides to leave it for now. He doesn’t have the energy to pick up all of the pieces. He feels sick and lonely. He wants to text Eileen or message her on Skype. But she’s gone and that’s because of them too. 

 

He must be some kind of masochist, since he decides the best form of torture is to get on his laptop and open Skype for the first time since she died to look at her profile picture. She’s so pretty in it, with her soft, dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, her sweet smile so genuine, lighting up her whole face, making her eyes crinkle. 

 

He misses her. 

 

He minimizes the screen but stays logged on, opting to put on a light show, something that won’t lighten his mood because nothing would at this point, but also something that won’t make him feel even more depressed. He settles on The Office. The episode is funny but he doesn’t crack a smile once. The same goes for the next one and the one after that. 

 

**Eileen Leahy is now online!**

 

It’s just five words, all packed into a little rectangular pop-up in the corner of his screen, but they make Sam’s heart jerk in his chest and knock the wind out of him. He doesn’t know if it is fear, hope, or uncontrollable rage that make his hands shake as he puts his finger on the touchpad to hover over the Skype Icon. He hesitates, but he clicks on it and the screen maximizes. 

 

What do you say to a dead woman? Or, better yet, what do you say to someone breaking into a dead woman’s Skype account? 

 

Turns out, he doesn’t have to start the conversation at all. An ellipsis bubble pops up as the person on the other end types. 

 

**Eileen: Sam? Is that you?**

 

Sam knows he should log off. Delete the program, just like he did on his phone, so that this sick bastard couldn’t track him. 

 

**Sam: It’s me.**

 

He’s so fucking stupid.

 

**Eileen: You scared me, asshole! You stopped sending letters and I thought…**

 

Sam grits his teeth and pounds out his response.

 

**Sam: Quit fucking with me. If you were her, you wouldn’t be on here. Eileen went off the grid. Eileen’s dead.**

 

There was a pause after he sent the message. No ellipsis at first, even though the message had been read. One does pop up after a moment though, and it stays like that for a while, which means that the impostor on the other side is writing a damn novel or they’re struggling on how to respond. 

 

Sam suspects it’s the ladder, but he would have never suspected them to call him for a video chat. 

 

Quickly, he declines the call, only to be called twice more. 

 

**Eileen: Pick up the call! I’ll prove it to you! What happened? Oh god, just answer!**

 

Sam swallows the lump in his throat. Against better judgment, he presses accept. 

 

And he’s greeted with the sight of her. 

 

If he’s ever seen a sight more beautiful, he can’t think of it right now. 

 

“What happened?” Eileen asks him frantically, “Sam, _what happened_?”

 

Sam opens his mouth, only to shut it again, before trying to speak once more. 

 

How can he answer a question like that? So much had happened. 

 

He knows he has to try to tell her, if it’s really her. Tell her that he had to look at her body in the morgue. Tell her about all the people he’s lost and that she was one of them and that her death had _hurt_ , more than it probably should have, but that he had felt something real, special, and significant with her, but it was still it was yanked away, just like she had been, along with so many other people in a matter of weeks. 

 

“Sam, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Why are you crying? Talk to me, don’t worry about signing, alright?”

 

Sam tries to gulp in some breaths, but each breath gets interrupted by a sob. He doesn’t know why he’s reacting like this. He doesn’t usually get like this when someone comes back from the dead, and that happens more to him than it does in other people’s lives.

 

Maybe he has an issue with bottling things up too.

 

“Sam…” she murmurs, “Shhh…”

 

He manages to get a hold of himself within a minute, tells her that he saw her body in the morgue, that she had been attacked by a hellhound that had been sicced on her, while he quietly runs her IP address to confirm it’s one based in Ireland. In turn, Eileen blesses holy water in front of him and throws it in her own face, touches herself with her silver necklace, and cuts herself with a blade. 

 

“It doesn’t mean much with my own supplies, I know,” Eileen tells him sadly as she shrugs, “I’ll let you do it to me when I see you in person, I promise.”

 

“I...I believe you. I think,” Sam tells her, swallowing around the lump, “It wouldn’t be the first time I thought someone was dead but they weren’t.” 

 

“Strange lives we live,” Eileen frowns, brow furrowed with worry, “Why didn’t you try to log on until now?”

 

Sam shrugs and gestures to the screen, “You’re the only person I talk to on here. You hadn’t been online since you left for Ireland. Then you…”

 

Sam doesn’t finish the sentence and has to look away from the camera.

 

“I’ve been logging on for the last week to see if I could catch you. Sent a few letters,” Eileen informs him, “Did you get any of the letters I’ve sent the last couple months?”

 

Sam shakes his head, facing the camera again, “A lot went down. We...We beat the British Men of Letters. The ones here, anyway. There’s been no signs of any remaining members in England sending anyone else. I think we’re safe on that front. I think you’re safe too.”

 

Eileen sucks in a breath and nods, “That...That’s good to hear. I heard from a couple of hunters here a week ago that they suffered a big blow. Hearing that actually gave me the initiative to turn my computer on. There’s not too many hunters in Ireland, but the ones who are here hate the Men of Letters.”

 

“Can’t blame them,” Sam croaks out.

 

“Did...Did something else happen? You seem exhausted and sad. I’m worried about you.”

 

Sam bites his lip, “Mom...Mom disappeared. She’s...It’s a long story. She’s in another dimension. With Lucifer.”

 

Eileen squints, as if she thinks she read his lips wrong, so Sam types out the message, adding a few more details, and watches her as her eyes widen before becoming sympathetic. 

 

“Oh, Sam...Sam, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Dean and I...We’re running into a lot of dead ends on how to get her back. Our best bet is Jack, Kelly’s son, but he’s MIA.”

 

“How is Dean?” she asks, genuinely concerned.

 

Sam shakes his head, “Cas...Cas died. It doesn’t look like he’s coming back. Dean’s taking it hard. I’m worried about him. I feel like I have to watch his every move. He won’t talk to me.”

 

Eileen’s eyes look glossy as she stares at him through the screen.

 

‘ _You don’t deserve this pain_.’

 

That’s what he thinks her signs translate to. That seems like something Eileen would sign and it makes his heart twinge. 

 

‘ _I missed you_ ’ he signs back. 

 

Eileen gives him a small smile and touches the screen, “I missed you too, Sam.”

 

He takes the laptop to his room and talks to her for a couple of hours, like they used to before she left. He strips down to his boxers and puts on a clean T-shirt, before coming back into view to lie on his side, keeping her propped on the pillow next to him. Her situation mirrors his own, as it had several times in the past, even though it’s already 8 am in Ireland. There are moments where she can give him a smile or say something funny and sassy and it would briefly push back the intense worry he felt for his brother and the grief he felt for all the losses he had suffered through the last few months. He almost forgot about that particular effect she had on him.

 

He wants her here with him. In his arms. It had happened once. The night before she left. They hadn’t had sex, but he had held her and she had kissed him, softly, sweetly, and longingly. It would have felt incredible if it hadn’t been a goodbye.

 

It’s 4 am when his eyes start to feel heavy. He forces them open because he wants to look at her, but she calls him out.

 

“You need to rest,” she insists, signing along, “We’ll talk soon.”

 

“When are you coming back?” he blurts out, propping his head up.

 

Eileen’s eyes soften, “Soon. As soon as I pack my things and book a flight.”

 

Sam lets himself smile.

 

‘ _I’m glad_.’

\----------------------------------------------------

Even though he needs the rest, Sam can’t help but pad barefoot down the hall to check on Dean. It’s become a habit within the last month, once reality seemed to start slowly setting in for his brother. He’s about to knock, his fist hovering over the door, but he stops himself.

 

_Stay away from me tonight._

 

Sam stares at the door, frowning. He knows Dean would want to know about Eileen. That he would be happy to hear that she’s alive, even if he would prepare every test possible to try on her to make sure she’s human.

 

Sam silently presses his ear against the door to listen for any signs that Dean might be sleeping, but he doesn’t hear them. 

 

Instead, he can hear Dean’s hitched breaths and soft sobs while _All my Love_ by Led Zeppelin begins to play at low volume. 

 

Sam can’t help but wonder if Dean woke up from another nightmare or if he has been crying ever since he threw the chair and stumbled upstairs.

 

Both possibilities break his heart.

 

He thinks about walking in, so that he can comfort him and maybe sit next to him while Dean falls asleep, but he doesn’t think Dean wants that right now.

 

It may help to tell him about Eileen.

 

**To chase a feather in the wind**   
**Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight**   
**There moves a thread that has no end**

 

**For many hours and days that pass ever soon**   
**The tides have caused the flame to dim**

 

Sam listens to the lyrics and realizes his brother might not be in a decent or sober enough state to find out the woman Sam got so close to isn’t dead after all, yet Cas is still gone. 

 

He stays for the whole song before going back to his room.

 

Sleep doesn’t come until sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. I was really struggling with where the present chapters should take place in the SPN storyline. The past portion has been in my head for over a year, but the present has always shifted. I needed the time to develop it and I am so glad I went with post season 12, even though this chapter is angsty as hell. If you read, please let me know what you think. I would really appreciate any feedback. 
> 
>  
> 
> The song mentioned in the story is "All my Love" by Led Zeppelin. I was going to do Stairway to Heaven but that felt like too obvious of a choice. But I do hope I made it obvious enough that Dean is listening to the mix tape. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!


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